


To the Edge and Back in One Fluid Motion

by cactustree



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e17 Pusher, F/M, Post-Episode: s03e17 Pusher, Season 3, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28472232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactustree/pseuds/cactustree
Summary: “I say we don’t let him take up another minute of our time,” says Scully, but it’s easier said than done.Post-ep to 03x17 “Pusher.” Brief reference to 02x13 “Irresistible.”
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	To the Edge and Back in One Fluid Motion

Hundreds of minutes later and I’m still not heeding my own advice. I’m pacing and alternately laughing and crying and boiling pasta on the stove until it turns to mush because I forgot to set a timer. At one point I step into the bathroom and gasp like a horror-movie extra at the sight of my own mascara-streaked face in the mirror. I whirl around and stalk back to the kitchen to resume pacing in front of the pot of overcooked pasta, then realize several minutes later that I still need to pee.

Eventually the pasta breaks down into its component parts and I dump the pot’s entire contents into the trash, water and all, the part of my brain that knows water doesn’t belong in the trash activating too late to stop me. The same momentum carries me straight out the front door; I grab my keys off the table without breaking stride.

Sometime during the drive, my nerves settle from “emergency” to “on alert.” Parked on the street outside Mulder’s apartment, I locate the presence of mind to tip down the rearview mirror and try to wipe the drying tears and streaks of mascara from my face. After a few minutes of scrubbing futilely at my cheeks with my fingertips I’m worried I’ve only made it worse, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.

I bang on Mulder’s door like I’m trying to rouse a suspect: closed fist, my full weight behind it. _Federal agent, open up_ , I almost scream, and then I start to laugh, and then Mulder opens the door and at the first glimpse of his face I start to cry.

He ushers me inside without question or comment, arm around my shoulders, and guides me to the couch. I can tell by the warmth of the cushions that he was lying here a moment ago. Bent over myself with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, I think back to that whole Donnie Pfaster nightmare last year, how I didn’t want Mulder to see me cry; how the momentary relief of allowing myself to dissolve into a sobbing mess in his arms was eclipsed by the shame that followed; how I could barely meet his eyes for days as I strove, without success, to wipe the memory from my consciousness. I wonder if that’s what lies ahead of me after tonight. I’m not sure I care, but I’m less sure I’ll feel the same way tomorrow.

I hear the soft thunk of a glass placed on the coffee table, followed by the creak of the cushion next to me sinking under Mulder’s weight. The crying has tapered off, but I keep my head in my hands. Mulder doesn’t ask me why I’m here, and I wonder if it’s because he’s waiting for me to tell him or because he already knows. If it’s the latter, I wish he would enlighten me.

We sit like this for an indeterminate amount of time: side by side, not touching. Then Mulder places a hand on my knee and I snap like an overworked guitar string.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” I’m on my feet and I’m not sure how I got there. I can hear my own words ringing in my ears like they came from somewhere else, like the walls themselves are screaming with my voice.

Mulder stares at me. He looks exhausted and helpless and for a moment I’m back in that hospital room and he’s pointing a gun at me with that same expression on his face and before I know it I hear myself screaming again.

“What the fuck, Mulder, what the _fuck_ , you pointed that fucking gun at your own fucking head and you pulled the trigger without a goddamn second of hesitation and then you pointed the gun at me and you . . .”

Mulder is still staring at me; his expression hasn’t changed. I feel my chest constrict like I’m wearing a straitjacket. It takes a Herculean effort to push the next words out.

“You didn’t pull the trigger.”

I can hear my wristwatch ticking in the silence that hangs between us. Finally, he says, “I would have.”

“But you didn’t. You fought him.” I can’t bring myself to say the rest: _You fought him harder. You fought harder for me than you did for yourself._ We both know it, but speaking it aloud feels reckless, like shooting a gun in a room with pure oxygen.

“Yeah,” Mulder says. He’s still staring at me with his sad, blank eyes, and I’m staring back at him with my face covered in God knows how much mascara, and I feel like I’m coming down from an adrenaline rush, my heart beating loud and fast over the white noise rushing in my ears.

“Right,” I say. I tear my eyes away from his, look down to study the floorboards. “Okay.”

“Scully?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you eaten?”

This surprises me into looking back up at him. “No,” I say. I think back to the sodden pasta disintegrating in my trash can at home and I almost laugh; I have to fight down the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “No, I haven’t.”

Mulder picks up his phone. “Pizza or Chinese?”

I gaze down at him, take him all in: five o’clock shadow, hair sticking out in every direction, rumpled t-shirt and sweats. I’m still wearing my suit but I bet I look worse.

“Chinese,” I say. For the first time since I arrived, my voice sounds within spitting distance of normal. As Mulder dials the number, I wander back to the couch, sit down beside him, and pick up the glass of water from the coffee table. I replenish my lost fluids while Mulder orders our usual. We’re sitting close enough that our knees just barely brush against each other and no other parts of us touch and it’s just the right amount of physical contact, just enough that I can feel it every time he moves, even the smallest shift assuring me that he’s here, he’s not okay but he’s alive and he’s here, we’re okay and we’re not okay and we’re alive and we’re here.


End file.
